E Pluribus Unum
by Sandra E
Summary: [HermioneLupin, HermioneSirius] And I would've gotten away with it, too.
1. Zeitnot

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Title: E Pluribus Unum

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Author: Sandra

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Category: Angst, romance.

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Spoilers: _Harry_ _Potter_ _and The_: _Philosopher_'_s_ _Stone_, _Chamber_ _of_ _Secrets_, **_Prisoner_** **_of_** **_Azkaban_**, _Goblet_ _of_ _Fire_.

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Rating: NC-17, eventually. Violence, sex, everything in between.

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Summary: Based on a scene from PoA. Why was Lupin so chummy with Hermione? Hmm, what? Time travel? Hermione/Lupin, Hermione/Sirius.

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Disclaimer: Of course not.

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Author's **Note**: Yes, it's a cliché. And?

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Feedback: Well, duh.

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Etc: **_Please_** **_note_** that the prologue has huge chunks lifted from the third book; if you haven't read it, skip this story. You don't want to be spoiled. If you _have_ read it, yay. I leafed through it last week to make sure I knew what Peter sounded like, and on my second reading, I noticed that, if you project really hard, you can make the Shrieking Shack encounter seem very shippy.

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The _prologue_ _is_ _straight_ _from_ _the_ _book_, _beginning_ _at_ _page_ _344_.

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Setting: Year Six.

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"Well, you're thinking anyway. Why not think big?"

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Prologue:

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"I don't believe it!" Hermione screamed.

Lupin let go of Black and turned to her. She had raised herself off the floor and was pointing at Lupin, wild-eyed. "You—you—"

"Hermione—"

"—you and him!"

"Hermione, calm down—"

"I didn't tell anyone!" Hermione shrieked. "I've been covering up for you—"

"Hermione, listen to me, please!" Lupin shouted. "I can explain—"

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"NO!" Hermione screamed. "Harry, don't trust him, he's been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too—_he's a_ _werewolf_!"

There was a ringing silence. Everyone's eyes were now on Lupin, who looked remarkably calm, though rather pale.

"Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione," he said. "Only one out of three, I'm afraid. I have not been helping Sirius get into the castle and I certainly don't want Harry dead...." An odd shiver passed over his face. "But I won't deny the fact that I am a werewolf."

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Lupin stopped dead. Then, with an obvious effort, he turned to Hermione and said, "How long have you known?"

"Ages," Hermione whispered. "Since I did Professor Snape's essay...."

"He'll be delighted," said Lupin coolly. "He assigned that essay hoping that someone would realize what my symptoms meant.... Did you check the lunar chart and realize that I was always ill at the full moon? Or did you realize that the boggart changed into the moon when it saw me?"

"Both," Hermione said quietly.

Lupin forced a laugh.

"You're the cleverest witch of your age I've ever met, Hermione."

"I'm not," Hermione whispered. "If I'd been a bit cleverer, I'd have told everyone what you are."

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"Er—Mr. Black—Sirius?" said Hermione.

Black jumped at being addressed like this and stared at Hermione as though he had never seen anything quite like her.

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Chapter **One**: **_Zeitnot_**

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North of Varna, Bulgaria, there is a beach.

Sandy, surrounded by resorts. Hidden behind a granite monument no one pays any attention to. No magic needed.

The sun never quite bothers there. Sunrise, sunset—all the same. Fashionably gloomy. Viktor Krum lives just down the path.

He has a midnight ritual, she's noticed.

Cinnamon rolls. Hot, straight out of the oven. Too much icing, if there is indeed such a thing. Muggleicious. Funny, really. Not his style. Sugar is more Ron's vice.

Viktor—he does it for her benefit.

Coffee, black. He doesn't drink, just stares at it. The mug is Greek. She stole it from Percy Weasley last summer. Pre-breakup gift, given to him by Penelope. A cathedral looms behind the handle. Black text under it says 1974. Nothing special, of course. Nothing in Percy's life is, after all. Thick-bottomed cauldrons. 'Bout as exciting as it gets.

So, she doesn't feel guilty for taking it.

Viktor—he tries. Sometimes he adds a little something. Red currant rum. Cornelius Fudge's favorite. Smells like work. Tastes like trial.

"Are you sure, Herm-o-ninny?" Viktor asks once the coffee goes cold.

She gives him a small smile, and nods. "It's almost September, Viktor."

"But you vill come vatch me, von't you?"

She gives him a noncommittal reply, and asks him to take her for a walk.

The beach is usually deserted. Too remote for that cosmopolitan atmosphere. Sometimes, if Viktor doesn't talk, she can hear the ships. The main port isn't too far away.

"This is vhere the Sultan was captured," Viktor points out, and she absorbs. "The King—he attacked here. 120,000 Turks, Herm-o-ninny. Their ghosts are most unpleasant."

Every night, they steer clear of the alcove. The rocks there are jagged, and Viktor worries.

"You could stay here, Herm-o-ninny," Viktor tells her. "Stay until September. I von't mind. My house is y—"

She hugs his arm tighter.

Eventually, he leaves for practice. Early, very early in the morning. She owls the Weasleys. Succinct. _Just_ _making_ _sure_ _you're_ _okay_, _Ron_, _Harry_. Every day.

Pigwidgeon doesn't like her anymore. He's almost drowned twice.

Errol never made it. Ron's birthday present is at the bottom of the sea, somewhere.

"Wasn't meant to be. Don't worry about it so much," Ron wrote her bravely. "Fate, right?"

Fate.

Deadly, but slow. A weapon like any other. Slightly more frightening. Unstoppable, unchangeable, _there_. A cosmic joke when Professor Trelawney gets involved.

"I see—I see you will die a slow, painful death, Hermione. You should never have left my class. I could have helped you, child. But now—now you will die a slow, painful death."

Currently in progress anyway.

Unforgivable.

Like Russell Crowe winning an Oscar. Like Bebe prices. Like the four curses.

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Crucio.

It hurts. Nothing specific, no. Nowhere, everywhere. Dull ache that makes her feel—_feel_. Tearing silk. That's what it's like. A slow ripping. Needles stabbing at her brain. Heartbeat; skipping at random. Pulse thrumming beneath her breastbone. Blood.

Viktor's house is full to bursting—Chinese Oil and medical magazines. Scientific approach to magical afflictions. Rabies of the wizarding world. Better not get it, the vaccine is too expensive.

But something is missing. Like there is something inherently wrong with her being here, _now_.

School starts soon. Her sixth year. Not long now before she's made Head Girl, before she graduates and is gone. Home.

But it's Hogwarts, she tells herself. _Hogwarts_ is home.

She packs slowly, leaves Viktor a note, and runs.

The alley she picks is appropriately dark. Gently, she takes out her wand, hesitates for a moment, squeezes her eyes tightly shut and points her fingers.

The bus, its magical engines humming softly, is there before she can even open her eyes.

Sickles and galleons at the ready, she walks up the steps. The doors close behind her.

By the time she realizes something is terribly wrong, it is far too late.

Or early.

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He's seen her grow up in pictures.

It didn't quite hit him until he saw the _Daily_ _Prophet_. She was leaning against a stoic-looking Krum, posing for whatever Quidditch scout was scheming in the background. She seemed taller than he remembers, but then again, it's been twenty years since—

"How do you think it happens?" Sirius asks with a frown.

Lupin shrugs. "Does it matter?"

Sirius looks at him for a long moment, cracks his knuckles, then shrugs, as well. "No, I suppose not."

On the wall of Lupin's office, hangs a lunar chart. It's common knowledge now. Relief, mostly. He doesn't have to hide anymore.

Voldemort is rising—there are far more hideous creatures to fear than a lowly werewolf professor.

The full moon was last week. The first week after always puts him in good spirits.

Lycantrophy.

Doorway to immortality.

Not quite there yet, but—

Bargain, really. Once a month. He doesn't even mark the days anymore. The calendar hasn't changed. The potion is the same. Snape brings it, sneers, waits to make sure.

Different time—remedies are abundant.

Malnutrition and nerves are in his way. His hair is graying. It doesn't matter much. He's not a vain man. If he survives. Aging slower, like Dumbledore. He can't prove it, of course. But there's that feeling.

The Shrieking Shack. Chance after chance. Understanding. Wise Dumbledore. _Old_ Dumbledore. _Very_ old Dumbledore.

"Ah."

Speaking of—

"I'm certainly glad to find you both here," Dumbledore's saying, hands clasped behind his back. Fawkes, his phoenix, looks sickly. Time to die.

"It's happened," he continues. Sirius frowns and looks at Lupin.

"So, we just wait, is that it?" one of them asks.

Dumbledore nods with a hint of a smile. "It will be much longer for her than us, I'm afraid," he says and pets the stone gargoyle.

When he's out of earshot, Sirius Black asks, in his least gloomy voice, "So, are we making her choose when she comes back?"

Remus Lupin simply smiles.


	2. Footprints

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Author's **Note**: Oh, my. Thank you extra much for all the reviews. No pressure, eh? Right. Um. So. Carry on.

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Chapter **Two**: **_Footprints_**

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Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,—act in the living present!...

...And departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another...

...A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

—_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

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Forget diamonds.

Denial was a girl's best friend.

She stood there, covering her mouth, looking like one of the See No Evil monkeys. Sun spilled lazily over the horizon, a light breeze caressed her neck, and—

She felt entirely too calm. Peaceful. Not at all what she'd imagined in her third year. Yes, McGonagall skirted around the topic of accidents, was peculiarly wary when Hermione asked for a Time Turner, was slightly relieved when Hermione returned it.

But, no, this wasn't what an accident of this magnitude should have felt like. Rain should have been pouring, the sky breaking. She should have been feeling lost, devastated, helpless. Lamb led to slaughter. A child abandoned in the middle of a desert.

Yet—

The bus was long gone. Background noise filtered in. Slowly, gingerly, as if considering her personal brand of culture shock. Soft chirping blocked the gentle whispering of wind. The grass beneath her feet glistened, surrendering to the sunset. Familiar.

Through thin, supple branches, Hermione could see it. Clearly. No mistaking it.

Nestled within a valley, dipping into a murky lake, with a patchwork of fields surrounding it, it stood proudly.

If it looks like a duck, smells like a—

Hogwarts. She was at Hogwarts.

A soft rustling behind startled her. Padding cautiously, brushing aside dry, autumn leaves, a small gray cat made its way towards her. Gracefully, it sat down on a dried-out old stump and observed Hermione with wary eyes.

Hermione blinked and focused. She knelt, her palms grazing the damp ground, and stared back. There was something—

"Professor McGonagall?" Hermione whispered. The cat stood up, and arched its back defensively.

"Professor McGonagall," said Hermione with a hint of relief. Maybe she'd imagined it—maybe that last _Crucio_ destroyed the logical part of her brain—maybe she didn't—it just wasn't possible without a time turner and—

There. Limbs forming; a tight, severe bun, square glasses, beady eyes.

"It seems odd that you should know me, when I cannot return the favor," said McGonagall warily, and Hermione winced.

No.

Less wrinkles, less tired, but the same old emerald-green robes. Familiar, but not. Distant.

McGonagall frowned, her brows furrowed in concentration, as if she were trying to place the girl before her, as if—for a moment—she'd second-guessed her own memory. Aging gracefully, but leaving your memory behind?

Hermione, not one to dwell stupidly on what should have been impossible, balled up her fists. That was it, then. She swallowed that protective little voice inside that urged her to just bask in the glory of denial. Yes. There. Gone. Shut up.

Fact. She was—had to be—in the past. The question was, how far back in the past? And why?

She had to think. To be extra careful. To not even squash a bug for fear of changing the future. After all, what if she stepped on Rita Skeeter? What if she—

She wanted—very badly—to ask what year it was. No, Granger. _Let's_ _go_, work that brain. Think. Asking questions like that, like you're a madwoman, like you're a time traveler? How first-year.

Hadn't McGonagall warned her? Foresight, Miss Granger, is an absolute necessity, she'd said. Or she will say.

God. Hermione's head hurt.

"Dumbledore," she said in an experimental voice. Quietly, maybe she won't hear you. Maybe she'll just fill in the blanks; do your work; take care of you.

McGonagall cocked her head inquiringly.

"I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore," Hermione repeated. _There_ _you_ _go_. Decisive. Siphon that Gryffindor bravery.

McGonagall stared at her, and Hermione could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Did she look very out of place? With her hair, with her—

Was Dumbledore even headmaster yet?

For a long minute, they both stood there, Hermione presenting herself for McGonagall's inspection.

Courage was, after all, the absence of fear, and Hermione didn't fear much lately. She'd seen that penetrating glare before. Not recently, but yes.

Finally, McGonagall reluctantly nodded, and motioned for Hermione to follow her.

Through the gate—the wrought iron looked bright and shiny, _new_—around the worn path, careful not to step onto the flower beds. A stone gargoyle eyed Hermione suspiciously. _Stranger_, _eh_? Go back, run—you don't belong here.

McGonagall stopped and turned around, fixing her eyes on Hermione, as if having second thoughts. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like they usually had (do, did, would, will, _oh_ _God_) when she was trying to see if a student had cheated on an exam.

Glass.

That's what Hermione felt like.

See-through, breakable. Slightly dead.

McGonagall bit the inside of her lip.

"You—" she began, but thought better of it. Her robes whooshed behind her dramatically as she turned around, and tapped on a protruding brick. There. A little magic and you're home. Familiarity.

A secret passage opened. This is new, thought Hermione.

No. Old.

With a wince, she followed McGonagall. Meekly, don't say anything, don't say, 'You're my favorite professor, Professor McGonagall. Please, can I ask—can I just—'

Spiral staircase, angled walls, narrowing corridors, and then—

"Wait here," said McGonagall quietly. "_Gillywater_."

The gargoyle yawned, and a narrow doorway swung open.

McGonagall motioned for Hermione to wait, and went in.

Hermione looked around.

Deductive. You can do it. You've done it before. Hell, you do it every day.

So.

Fact. Dumbledore was here, as headmaster. That narrowed it down to the last half of the century. Fact. McGonagall hadn't recognized her. So. No Hermione yet. No Harry. No Ron. No Ginny. No—

Voldemort? Voldemort. Vol—

Bony fingers clamped down around her shoulder. Hermione jerked away, pulling herself against a wall.

McGonagall stood there, watching her with growing sympathy. "You may go in," she said carefully. Hermione took a slow step forward, but something floated out in front of her.

A white lace handkerchief.

McGonagall's handkerchief.

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Were _you_ _crying_? Absently, Hermione touched her cheek. Slippery, wet. Tears.

No.

She shook her head at McGonagall, wiped under her eyes none too gently, and steadily stepped into the short, dark tunnel.

Dumbledore's office.

And Dumbledore. Like a tall, thin Santa Claus. Purple robes and all. Long nose, half-moon spectacles, and curious blue eyes watching her underneath thick, silver eyelashes. Where was his bag of presents?

"Ah," he said simply. "There is nothing quite as good as a nice pair of warm socks."

Hermione flinched. Confusion doesn't suit you, Granger. Gaping trout look is so passe it's fashionable again.

"Wouldn't you agree, Miss—?"

"Granger," said Hermione quietly. "Hermione Granger."

Dumbledore was watching her silently. Too long. Too observant. Like a judge. Or a father. Or—

"Please sit, Miss Granger," he said.

Hermione sat down obediently. Felt no different than coming to his office to discuss the healing properties of hot chocolate. Or debating the possibilities of blocking the Four Unforgivables. Just your run-of-the-mill day. Normal conversation with your old headmaster. Only, he didn't know her yet. He wouldn't for—how many years?

"Fate, my dear Miss Granger," said Dumbledore oddly, "is far less complicated than you'd think."

Hermione looked up.

"How —"

Dumbledore waved a pale hand. "Professor McGonagall saw you exit the Tempora."

Tempora. _Tempora_. Page—page 1723 of _Hogwarts_, _A History_.

"You are here for a reason, Miss Granger," continued Dumbledore warmly.

A small grin crossed her lips. "You haven't changed."

Dumbledore smiled. "I assure you that is an extremely comforting thought."

He waved a wand, and a handsome silver platter appeared before her. Lemon squares. Predictable, therefore comfortable.

She took one. Just hold it. Don't let go. Savor.

"Have I—_will_ I ever tell you the story of the Venetian prince?" asked Dumbledore.

Hermione shook her head.

"He was a smart man, that one. A Muggle, bless him, but a brilliant Muggle."

Hermione listened intently.

Dumbledore winked at her. "He could see the future, you know," he said.

Hermione looked up.

"He saw Venice defeated, and set about to change that. He'd thought long and hard, Miss Granger, searching for a way to change the future."

Breathe in. Breathe out. It's simple. Stripped down to basics.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "And finally, he found it. He was the greatest of chess players, you see; he'd been behind our first Wizard Chess Sets."

A soft thud startled Hermione.

Feathers and ash. Soft, eerie singing. Phoenix.

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Fawkes.

In a graceful swoop, the phoenix perched atop Dumbledore's shoulder, and nipped at his cheek.

"Do excuse Fawkes. He's about to die, you see."

Hermione flinched. _Harry_.

"It was a time of intellectual darkness, Miss Granger," continued Dumbledore as if he hadn't been interrupted. Fawkes eyed Hermione with a mysterious expression. A long, fiery-red feather drifted to the desk and toward Hermione. Hermione ignored it.

"A small country, uneducated, nearly barbarian, worried him most," said Dumbledore. "So he challenged its King, who'd never even heard of chess before, to a match."

The feather slid around a thick, ancient-looking textbook, gliding persistently towards Hermione. Hermione twined her fingers nervously.

"He told the King that if he were to win, Venice would remain free for as long as either of them ruled."

The feather dropped off the table, and clung to the bottom of Hermione's cloak.

"Pick it up, Miss Granger," Dumbledore told her, with a twinkle in his eye. "Fawkes is usually rather sensitive about sharing."

Hermione, with trembling fingers, touched the feather and felt slightly less alone.

"The King agreed, of course. He wasn't a very bright man, Miss Granger, but fate is fate. It is unchangeable, it is the answer to the chicken and the egg."

Hermione pocketed the feather and asked, in an insecure voice, "The Venetian prince lost?"

Dumbledore nodded. His eyes narrowed, and he suddenly looked quite tired. "Now, think hard, Miss Granger—is there a specific event that comes to mind? Something that happens between now and your time? Not one you can prevent, but one you can make sure happens."

Hermione's eyes widened.

Make sure it happens? But—

"What year is it?" she asked shakily. You're not a lamb, you're a lion, damn it. A lion. Act like it.

"1977," said Dumbledore as if he had to answer that question every day.

1977. 1977. That's—

"There's nothing—" she began with a frown that looked almost painful. _1977_. "Wait."

Fawkes chirped.

"Voldemort," she said over the lump in her throat.

Dumbledore cocked a bushy eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Has he—has he—" Has he risen yet? Has he killed your wife yet, Professor? Has he set his eyes on the Potters, has he—

"Miss Granger, I suggest you keep the details to yourself," said Dumbledore grimly. "However helpful they may seem now."

Hermione winced. Reproach from Dumbledore. And here she was, thinking that a _Cruciatus_ hurt.

She looked up at the headmaster, past and present, and said, in a low, worried voice. "I cannot possibly be here to—to stop Voldemort."

"Quite right you are, Miss Granger. Such a drastic action would severely alter the future. You must know much to be chosen by the Tempora. You cannot prevent anything from happening, but you must make certain history—as you know it—takes place. However... horrible it may be. It is quite a paradox, I admit, but not a complicated one."

Not a compl—

"But—"

"Whatever you are here to do, you've already done it," smiled Dumbledore warmly. "I trust you will succeed, Miss Granger."

Succeed or fail. What was a time-traveler's definition of success?

Hermione nodded numbly.

"Now, about your accommodations. I fear we have only had one previous time-traveler, and he hadn't lingered for long. Shall I assume you are a Gryffindor in the future?"

Hermione blinked.

Dumbledore gave her a sly smile. "I've not once been wrong, Miss Granger."

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This was living.

Facing your demons, emerging the victor.

The woods shone brightly; a small, tucked-away corner of the Forbidden Forest hiding in its wing. West of the Whomping Willow. North of home.

"Oi, Prongs," said a tinny voice, "mind _not_ stepping on me?"

Peter Pettigrew, who'd shifted back into his human form—chubby, short, with thinning hair—mumbled and glared daggers at the remainder of the small group.

The Marauders, high on life (and Madam Rosmerta's special butterbeer), sat down for a breather. Peter slumped against a tree, while Padfoot, a large, black mutt, just scratched behind his ear.

Not a care in the world.

Homework all done, potions all drunk, Professors all blind.

Jackpot of life. Karma. What comes around, goes around.

"Well, if you weren't so bloody small," said James Potter upon shifting, "or so _stubborn_ about riding on someone's back—"

"Hey, leave poor Petey alone," said Lupin with a grin. "He's just worried we'll get caught. We have no excuse, you know. The full moon isn't for—er, nineteen more days."

James grinned wickedly. "You're just jealous 'cause you can't keep up when you're not all _grr_."

Lupin snorted. "This from the famous James Potter, who was outran by a sickly Lucius Malfoy last year."

James frowned. "He cheated—and, oi, Padfoot, let's go already. Shift."

Padfoot gave a short, indignant bark, stuck his tail in the air and walked off airily.

Peter, Lupin and James exchanged looks, then rolled their eyes. Peter kicked a pile of dry leaves, and smiled broadly. "You know, I've heard Dumbledore's letting seventh-years join the Dueling Club this year."

James raised his eyebrows. "He's—he's been acting strange lately."

Lupin smacked him on the shoulder and grinned. "_Lately_?"

James snickered, then frowned. "He's spending a lot of time with that ugly git."

Peter and Lupin scrunched up their noses. "Snape?"

"What other ugly git do we know?"

Peter looked thoughtful, opened his mouth to retaliate, but Lupin beat him to it.

"Looked in a mirror lately, Head Boy?"

A heavy tree branch whizzed past Lupin's head.

"I'm just saying—" began James again, but a loud howl interrupted him.

None of them wasted time.

Run. Faster.

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Faster.

The clearing overlooking the lake. A foggy view of Hogsmeade. Perfectly clear view of the Gryffindor Tower.

Padfoot sat there patiently, blending with the night, pointing his snout.

"What the bloody hell are you—"

Padfoot growled low in his throat.

"Be quiet, James, he's—" whispered Lupin, then paused. "_Look_."

Behind a large, stony archway, stood Professor McGonagall. On closer inspection, Lupin could see a small figure hiding behind her. He craned his neck to see—

"I reckon we've got ourselves a new Gryffindor," said Sirius, finally shifting. A wily, scheming grin crept up onto his lips.

Trouble. And not the good kind.

No, Sirius, let's not get expelled in our last year, please.

"Wh —why would we be getting a new student a month into the term?" asked Peter nervously. James looked at him, paused for a moment, then rubbed his neck.

"I—I don't know."

"I'd like you to register my astonishment," said Sirius nonchalantly, and promptly ducked.

Lupin kept watching the tower.

"It's a girl," he said absentmindedly.

The girl—she looked—there was something—

"Is she—is she pretty?" asked Peter shyly, hopping behind James to catch a glimpse.

James burst out laughing, and Sirius wiped away a tear.

Only Lupin answered. Seriously, at that. "I can't see from here."

"So much for those werewolf rumors," Sirius shook his head with mock disgust. "Aren't you supposed to have excellent eyesight?"

Lupin scowled. "This from someone who only sees in black and white."

"Green," said Sirius with a grin.

Lupin ignored him.

The girl—she'd looked away. Toward them. No. Couldn't be. She wouldn't be able to see them. And yet—

"Er—come on, we should—we should be going back before—before McGonagall decides to check on us," mumbled Peter anxiously.

James nodded. "We'll even have time for a round of Exploding Snap—er, provided we don't demolish the entire east wing."

"_Again_," added Lupin pointedly, then grinned sheepishly.

Peter returned the sentiment and scurried down the small, lightly sloped hill, jumping over a small green pond full of Longbottom's toads. James followed, gliding effortlessly as if he were flying on his broom.

The moon looked quite innocent. Soft moonlight spilled through the clouds, casting a cozy gloss over the field. Sheen off a pearl. Rich, fulfilling.

Inviting.

"Hey," said a voice.

Lupin realized he hadn't been moving. Sirius Black stared at him, amused. "What are you waiting for? McGonagall to come _punish_ you?" He waggled his dark bushy eyebrows suggestively.

"You need to get out more," said Lupin calmly.

"I intend to," replied Sirius and darted after James and Peter. Lupin ran after him.

What did he mean by—

"James!" shouted Sirius. James Potter, looking slightly dazed, stopped running and turned around. "What?" he asked in a breathless voice.

His glasses reflected Lupin's curious face.

"I need to borrow your Invisibility Cloak," said Sirius, smirking. James raised his eyebrows, Peter blanched and Lupin frowned.

"What for?"

"That new girl," said Sirius, "I'm going to find out what's going on."

Everyone stared at him, open-mouthed.

"What?" asked Sirius innocently. "We have to put it to good use. What's the point otherwise?"

Lupin scowled. "I suppose you were out when we covered the issue of privacy, eh?"

Sirius looked at him incredulously. "Hey, it's called investigative journalism, Moony."

"Yes, how else is he going to get that job at the Daily Prophet?" snorted James.

Peter grinned. "I thought we had to teach him how to read and write before he applied?"

Even Lupin snickered.

Sirius gave them an indignant pfft. "Is that a yes, Prongs?"

James rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Er — okay, but under one condition."

Lupin waited for the blow.

"You tell us if she's pretty," Peter piped in.

Lupin groaned.


	3. Time

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Author's **Note**: Sorry about the lack of updates. My fingers can't decide if they want to write about Draco or Fred or Harry or—you get the picture.

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Chapter **Three**: **_Time_**

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Kazu da vrijeme tugu i bol briše,

ali tuge i boli sve je više.

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She _was_ pretty.

Sirius Black, concealed by the Invisibility Cloak, held his breath. He'd followed McGonagall, who looked broody and entirely too pensive, into the girls' dormitory.

Cheap thrills and all that. That's right. It certainly won't put a dent in your reputation, Black, old boy.

McGonagall hadn't spoken a single word; she'd just observed the girl with—

Sirius didn't know what that fleck of contemplation meant. He'd never seen it before. Not on McGonagall's face, at least. Dumbledore's, sometimes. When he pranced around with Hagrid, or that greasy Slytherin git.

And now, McGonagall had softly closed the door behind her.

__

Gone.

Left Sirius alone with the girl. So much for wisdom increasing with age.

Quick sweep of the room. There. A small, curled bump hiding beneath crimson covers. Lily Evans' pillow. Where _was_ little Lily Evans, anyway? Shouldn't she be here, marveling at her new roommate?

Sirius grinned. If only he could stick around until she came, until she realized her Head Girl privileges now meant she'd have to share a room with a little girl—

A quiet, almost indecipherable noise startled him. The bed straight ahead, four-poster, velvet sheets, gossamer-thin curtains. And a tiny figure perched atop it.

Stealthily, Sirius took a step closer. And another, and one more, until he could see—

She wasn't crying, no. But something—very distant, very lost and thoughtful—shimmered there in her eyes. With a small frown, she drew her legs up, and hugged her knees.

Sirius watched curiously.

Her chin came to rest atop her right knee.

Sirius frowned.

__

Concentrate.

One more step. C'mon, Padfoot. It can't hurt. Let's go. Out with that adventurous spirit.

The girl suddenly looked up.

Sirius swallowed.

All right. Shameful, Black. Afraid of some bushy-haired little Gryffindor?

The girl shook her head, then reached for a small bag near the bed.

Was that all her luggage? Peter needed a bag bigger than that just for his _Adventures_ _of_ _Martin_ _Miggs_, _The_ _Mad_ _Muggle_ collection.

Hmm.

All right, one more step, but that's it. Enough. Stop and report back to the Marauders. Mission accomplished. Yes, Peter, she's pretty, and no, I don't think you stand a chance.

The girl was moving—damn it, Black, pay attention.

Her fingers had wrapped around an ugly mug. She was staring at it as if it were the key to Zonko's.

And then, suddenly, her lips were on the mug, nibbling at the porcelain.

Er. Strange.

Sirius Black had half a mind to conjure up some extra special butterbeer.

Presto, as if reading his thoughts, the girl put the mug back into the bag.

She gave a small sigh, stretched her legs slowly, languorously, and hopped off the bed. She stood up, the back of her knees touching the corner of the bed.

Oh.

Take a step back, Black. Move. _Quickly_.

She was looking around the room like she was searching for something—

And then—

Fingers. On her robes, unbuttoning.

Er. Very well. A few more minutes, then.

But suddenly, she winced.

Stay quiet, you fool. Don't ask her what's wrong.

Her eyebrows drew together, and her bottom lip trembled.

Beginning of Girl Breakdown No.13™. He'd seen it before. Unfortunately.

Something had to be horribly wrong. Like, she probably broke a nail, or something a little less shallow.

Common sense having failed him, Sirius Black took another step toward her.

The girl threw her robe to the bed, biting her lip absentmindedly, took a step forward—

—and ran straight into his chest.

Fuck.

Not quick enough, Padfoot!

She could obviously feel him standing there. No doubt about it.

Postpone that Daily Prophet fantasy. Get stealth training first. Grow a brain. Steal crucial potion. Not necessarily in that order. _Then_ apply.

The girl—her eyes had widened, and for a moment he thought she would scream, but—

Down they went. Toppling onto the bed. He on top of her, she clutching his cloak.

The hood slid off his head—past his ears, down his neck and soon, his head floated above hers.

Stomach to stomach, nose to nose, he stared.

There. What was that?

Like a flicker of recognition.

For a moment, an absurd second, he thought he'd heard her whisper _Sirius_?, but—

Not bloody likely.

And then, she was hugging him. Like he'd just saved her life or—

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she nuzzled into him. Almost desperately, really. Like a toddler would to a father or Dumbledore.

Er, all right. Gift horse and all that.

He returned the embrace, feeling blood rush down his body. Through his muscles, away from his head, toward the best of nerve endings.

"Most girls usually insist I take them to Hogsmeade first," murmured Sirius with a grin.

She stiffened, pushed him slightly away, and fixed her eyes on his.

There. Again. An encore.

Recognition.

What the—

And then her eyes widened with horror, and she pushed him off.

He landed on the floor, confused and more than a little intrigued.

"Sirius Black!" came a voice. Lily Evans, her hair disheveled, stood there, glaring. She looked exhausted.

Second thought—apoplectic with rage.

She eyed him for a long moment, then shifted her gaze to the girl.

"Er—hello," said Lily slowly.

The girl was observing Lily as if she were Morgana herself. Finally, she managed a quiet, "Hello."

Lily Evans looked wildly from the girl to Sirius to the bed. Finally, she settled on the girl.

"No offense, but—" she began incredulously.

"—Professor McGonagall thought it best I stay here for a few days," said Hermione slowly. Then, her pace quickened. "Until I—adjust. Sixth year dormitories are full, and Professor McGonagall told me it wouldn't be..." Pause. Quick study of the room. "I'm—I'm terribly sorry to impose—"

Lily waved a slender hand. "Oh, don't—don't worry abo—" she trailed off. "What's _he_ doing here? Don't tell me Professor McGonagall wants _him_ to stay over, as well."

Er.

"Well, this is nice," said Sirius in a voice he hoped sounded innocent. He inched toward the exit. "Seeing as you two obviously have some bonding to do, I'll just—"

"—freeze!" shouted Lily.

Not exactly what he'd been intending to say, but—

Sirius Black, per request, froze.

"You have exactly ten seconds to tell me what you were doing here, Sirius, and then I'll give you a choice. I'll either call Professor McGonagall, or hex you with a particularly nasty dwindle spell."

Sirius snorted, and glanced at the younger girl. He waved his hand dramatically. "You're setting a great example for our younger housemates, Head Girl."

"Ten," said Lily coolly. "Nine."

"I'll just tell McGonagall you invited me over for a snog," said Sirius with a grin. Patented Black charm, on. Marauder arrogance, off.

"Eight. Seven," continued Lily dispassionately.

"I do know how to counter a dwindle hex," said Sirius lightheartedly.

Lily shrugged. "Six. Five."

"All right, so you can count. Show off," grinned Sirius.

You do work best under pressure, old buddy, old pal.

Really, what's the worst she could do? Blind you with her Head Girl badge?

"I'm sorry," said Lily apologetically, looking at the other girl. "That's Sirius Black. His kind seems to be exceptionally _shifty_."

Oh, low blow, Evans.

"_Three_, Sirius," she warned.

"What happened to four?" he complained.

"Same thing that'll happen to you, if you don't answer me."

He was about to open his mouth and retaliate—

"_Verito_!" mumbled an irritated voice. The new girl.

"What were you doing here?" she asked in a low voice, but didn't meet his eyes.

Oh, crap. What the—

"Watching you undress," he said involuntarily.

Lily arched an eyebrow. She eyed the girl for a moment, then nodded. "Impressive."

The girl was sitting on her bed quietly, fingering her wand.

"I'm Lily," said Lily.

"Hermi—" the girl frowned, then looked up with determination. "Hermione."

All right. While they're distracted—

Any day now, Padfoot.

Sirius Black, never one to dawdle, darted toward the door.

He grinned victoriously, and threw a cocky "And I would've gotten away with it, too!" before disappearing down the stairs.

.

.

.

.

.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours.

20,160 minutes.

But apparently, time was relative anyway.

Hermione Granger, nose buried in _Hogwarts_, _A History_, frowned. The black ink on the golden parchment in front of her didn't seem quite as appealing as it usually did.

It was reflex, a force of habit. Reading wherever she went.

There _is_ a reason behind it, she reminded herself.

You're avoiding. Laying low, staying below the radar, remember? You're as good as invisible behind that big book.

Unfortunately, that wasn't entirely true.

Lily Potter—_Evans_, damn it—had left her alone. Smart. She didn't ask stupid questions, didn't dig through her drawers, didn't complain when Hermione skipped meals. Didn't try to be her best friend.

Those preliminary _few_ _days_ had turned into an indefinite stay. Lily didn't seem to mind. As Head Girl, she was routinely out, patrolling. Or bent over a parchment, nibbling on her quill. Or on some mysterious excursion.

She looked nothing like Harry, of course, but there were moments when Hermione could swear it was Ginny Weasley—a more mature, taller, less freckled Ginny Weasley—sitting there, at the Gryffindor table, discussing homework.

Wishful thinking, Granger.

The Marauders, on the other hand—

They were _everywhere_. James Potter and Sirius Black were joined at the hip. Their friendship looked almost painful from her vantage point. Peter Pettigrew, on closer inspection, was a Neville wannabe, although not half so loyal.

Stupid, he wasn't. Lazy, perhaps. He'd latched onto her in Potions, Herbology, and Charms. She was running out of excuses.

No, I don't know the answer to that, and no, I don't think it's safe to mix thyme with rosemary.

Remus Lupin, who'd been the only one to leave her be, looked worse each day.

She wanted—very, very badly—to tell him about the Wolfsbane Potion, but—

Do they remember? The older versions? Did Scabbers recognize you, that first year on the train? Had Professor Lupin known? And Sirius—

Hmm. You can always pay him back, Hermione. Once you go back home. Walk up to Harry and say, "You know, your godfather used to have a crush on me."

Bring a little humor into that bleak atmosphere.

No. They won't remember. Can't, shouldn't.

If worst comes to worse—oh, God—there are always Memory Charms. Obliviate and be done with it.

You _can't_ make an impact, Granger. You report the news. You don't make them.

Dumbledore _has_ to be wrong. This was just an accident.

She'd researched; went through every book in the restricted section, and couldn't even begin to understand why _she_ was here.

The Marauders _she_ knew—professor, fugitive, traitor, dead—were nothing like these young Marauders.

These Marauders were loud and obnoxious and so full of life it hurt to look at them.

It didn't make sense. Nothing—absolutely nothing—could tear them apart.

Hermione frowned. It was getting progressively more difficult to watch them interact. Friendly and oblivious.

Harder to ignore her own knowledge of the facts, her ability to prevent it all with just one sentence, to pretend not to know them—

__

Liar.

You don't know them, Hermione. You know _of _them, but—

It would be so easy to pretend, to just imagine that was Harry over there, standing with his friends, waiting for the Dueling Club to start up.

"Where are they? It's way past seven!" complained a nameless Gryffindor.

Hermione had no interest in the Dueling Club, but Dumbledore had told her—rather vigorously—that she should attend today.

Attend, yes, fine. Participate, no.

She'd hidden in a darkened corner, opened a book, and tried to read. Occasionally, she'd felt someone's eyes on her, but hadn't turned to check.

Much to her chagrin, she was the resident enigma.

It was appealing, in a way. To start out as a sixteen year old mystery, rather than an eleven year old know-it-all who's afraid of trolls. Still. Don't milk it, Granger. Eventually, they'll forget all about the strange little Gryffindor girl who just showed up out of nowhere and won't talk to anyone.

"Finally!" shouted James Potter irritably.

Hermione glanced at the center of the room. Dumbledore had appeared, Professor Flitwick in tow.

Professor Flitwick?

Oh, yes. Wasn't he a dueling champion, once upon a time?

It was harder to resist, now. She had to watch.

Professor Flitwick seemed taller, less gray, lively as ever. He was swishing his wand around, poking random students. Gleefully, he'd give out cookies and feathers, saying, "How nice of you to join us, Mr. Black—what've you got there, Mr. Snape?—that was a wonderful swish and flick, Miss Wells!"

Fine. Just five minutes. Won't kill you. It may even be entertaining.

As long as no one ends up speaking Parseltongue.

"Ah, excellent!" said Professor Dumbledore. "I'm glad to see more of you decided to join us this week."

Professor Flitwick practically tittered.

Soon, a few random students began demonstrating what they'd learnt last time.

Hermione watched, trying desperately not to compare this simple exercise to the dueling exhibitions in her fifth year. Or the summer encounters. Or—

No. Back away from that memory.

The students continued dueling. Hermione watched with a critical eye.

Eh. Nothing new. Third year hexes. Ooh, _poorly_ executed. You need a new wand, you fool. Too slow. You'd never make it past a Stupefy. Ugh, saw a house-elf with more power. What was _that_? You belong in _Hufflepuff_. You call that a perfectly carried Hover Charm?

Finally, Hermione gave up, and went back to reading.

"Miss Granger?" said a distant voice.

Hermione looked up.

Dumbledore was watching her oddly. Hermione winced, her fingers freezing over a half-turned page.

"Ah, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore loudly. His voice carried over the room. Everyone turned to look at her. Most of the room hadn't even known her name, hadn't even noticed her, and now—

"Would you mind sharing with us the kind of Disarming Charms you've studied in, Durmstrang, was it?" asked Dumbledore mirthfully.

Bastard.

With one sentence, he'd given her a public background and made everyone take notice.

Reluctantly, she nodded and stood up.

"Come now, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore merrily, beckoning her over. "No one here bites."

Involuntarily, Hermione's eyes strayed to a smiling Remus Lupin.

As soon as she looked at him, his smile faded.

Damn it. Zip it, Granger.

"Yes, let's see," said Dumbledore absentmindedly. Hermione came to stand beside him, fingering her wand nervously. Dumbledore looked around the room, then clapped his hands. "Ah, yes, excellent!"

Hermione followed his line of vision.

Oh, no.

__

No.

"Mr. Black, if you'd be so kind—"

Sirius grinned and jogged up to them, pulling his wand out.

What was Dumbledore _doing_?

"Now," began Professor Flitwick enthusiastically, "face each other."

Put it on auto-pilot, Granger. Don't worry. Dumbledore knows what he's doing.

Hopefully.

"And bow," finished Professor Flitwick.

Yes, right, because that's exactly how the Death Eaters do it.

Annoyed, Hermione faced Sirius Black.

"I do hope you're not aiming to kill," said Sirius with a rakish grin.

Hermione said nothing.

"Wands at the ready!" shouted tiny Professor Flitwick.

Hermione mumbled under her breath. There. Shield Charm. Deflect, rather than cast.

Sirius raised his wand gracefully, and bowed.

Hermione frowned, and stole a quick glance at Dumbledore. He was smiling expectantly.

So.

He _does_ want to know what happens in the future. He just wants to figure it out on his own. Evaluate your skills, Miss Granger, draw his own conclusions.

Well, no deal.

No difficult spells, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could tip them off. The future's not all that bright, Professor. You're better off not knowing.

"One," began Professor Flitwick.

Sirius' grin grew.

Hermione gripped her wand.

"Two—"

Dumbledore stopped smiling, and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Three!" shouted Professor Flitwick.

Hermione did nothing. Her magical barriers could almost equal those of Dumbledore himself.

But Sirius—

"_Orchideous_!" he shouted.

A bouquet of flowers sprang out of his wand. Full technicolor.

Hermione blinked.

The crowd around them burst into laughter.

Frozen to her spot, Hermione stared at Sirius.

He bowed gallantly. His entire face was lit up with a strange, oblivious sort of happiness.

__

Idiot.

__

It was all your fault.

Hermione cringed.

It _will_ _be_ his fault.

And before Hermione could stop to reconsider—

"_Expelliarmus_!" she shouted.

Sirius' wand flew out of his fingers, soft petals scattering across the floor.

"_Martellato_!" she continued.

Sirius slammed into the closest wall. He hovered over the ground for a moment and then, like he'd been grabbed by an invisible hand, slammed into the wall again.

Before either Flitwick or Dumbledore had a chance to react, Hermione gasped.

"_Finite_ _Incantatem_!" she said hoarsely, and Sirius dropped to the floor.

The room was quiet. An occasional cough drifted across the sea of nameless faces.

"He's all right," said Dumbledore quickly. Madam Pomfrey, younger, less round, materialized and rushed to tend to Sirius.

"_Accio_," whispered Hermione. Sirius' wand flew to her fingers obediently.

Quietly, she walked toward Dumbledore.

He arranged his face into a puzzled expression. "Interesting technique, Miss Granger!" he said very loudly, with false merriment. "Do remind me to arrange for more student transfers between our schools."

A disgruntled murmur spread over the crowd, as they began filing out.

Hermione Granger kept her eyes on the floor. She handed Dumbledore Sirius' wand, then turned to leave.

Oh.

A small group of dark, calculating silhouettes was staring straight at her. Beady, dark eyes, and questionable hygiene.

Slytherins.

__

Snape.

"Miss Granger," said Dumbledore loudly. "A word?"

The Slytherins frowned, and exchanged brooding glances. They took one last appreciative look at Hermione, and turned to leave.

"Certainly, Professor," said Hermione gratefully. The Slytherins were gone.

"Miss Granger—" began Dumbledore.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, her head lowered.

She was.

__

Honest.

Dumbledore eyed her warily. A slight frown etched itself into his wrinkled forehead. "It's not a pretty future, is it?"

You don't say.

"It's—it's _going_ to be," said Hermione firmly.

Dumbledore smiled. A pale bony hand patted her shoulder. "If you're anything to go by on, Miss Granger, I'm certain it will be a wonderful future. Eventually."

A small, hesitant smile curled Hermione's lips.

There you go. You haven't forgotten how to smile. Go you.

"Now, if young Mr. Black would—ah, thank you, Madam Pomfrey—how are you feeling, Mr. Black?" asked Dumbledore.

"I'm fine," said Sirius grumpily.

Hermione refused to look at him. _Couldn_'t look at him.

He stood up shakily, holding onto Madam Pomfrey.

Hermione winced.

She really hadn't meant to—

"Your wand," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.

Sirius wrapped his fingers around the wand, watching it contemplatively.

Oh, dear.

Trouble. Living, breathing epitome of trouble.

Way to stay below the radar, Hermione. He's bound to come after you, now. Marauder's vengeance and all that rubbish.

"I told you they weren't ready for a Dueling Club, Albus," grumped Madam Pomfrey.

Sirius watched Hermione intently.

"They must start somewhere, Poppy," replied Dumbledore.

Hermione tried to inconspicuously hide behind him.

Sirius was still watching her with darkened eyes.

"Yes, yes, in the _infirmary_, by the looks of it!" said Madam Pomfrey, fussing over her moody patient.

Dumbledore only chortled lightheartedly. He lowered his eyes to Hermione's and said, in his best grandfather voice, "Perhaps you ought to go prepare for dinner, Miss Granger."

Hermione glanced at Sirius, then at the door.

Oh, yes. Tough choice.

With a relieved nod, she bid the Headmaster goodbye, and bolted for the door.

There. Escape. Hermione's Run, with a happy ending.

You'll have to try harder, Granger. Don't attract attention, and most importantly, stay away from the Gryffindors.

Hermione Granger rounded a corner, feeling a lot better than she had in months.

And then—

An arm darted out from one of the shadowy corridors, and pulled her into the darkness.

Before she could protest, a hand clamped down over her mouth.


End file.
